


Ghosts

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: It's another country, another faceless city that she only sees the street lights of. Another hotel, another anonymous bathroom without the clutter of too many trinkets that a girl of nineteen should have accumulated, without notes or photographs stuck to the mirror.
Kudos: 1





	Ghosts

It's another country, another faceless city that she only sees the street lights of. Another hotel, another anonymous bathroom without the clutter of too many trinkets that a girl of nineteen should have accumulated, without notes or photographs stuck to the mirror.

She flees, wraps a too big knitted cardigan around her too slim self, laces her trainers and sets out to wander the deserted corridors, one exactly like the other. Only the changing numbers on the doors show her progress, other than that she could be walking a treadmill in front of an endless loop of the same garish carpets and the same subdued wallpaper.

The staircase is intimidating in comparison, like an added afterthought, all the splendour of mirrored lifts and lush gilded floor numbers leaving no financial means to put interior design's equivalent of make up on a few hard stone steps and metal banisters. It smells faintly of  _ Mr. Clean _ .

Her rubber soles make squeaking noises on every turn and she twists her steps to spell out the floor numbers.

_ squeak squeak squeak _

Third Floor.

_ squeak squeak _

Second Floor.

_ squeak _

First Floor.

Padded carpet swallows all noise on the ground floor.

The lobby is to her right, but she doesn't want to go there, doesn't feel like meeting the receptionist's professionally polite question whether she is lost, whether she needs anything.

She is, and she does, but it is nothing he can provide. The thought makes her a little more homesick so she chooses the glass doors to her left instead.

Another corridor, this one not as uniformly coloured as the previous ones. It's dimly lit, the carpet under her feet is thicker, softer almost. The rooms have names instead of numbers and it makes her feel a little more at ease among them, trailing her fingers over the raised letters on the plates. A world tour of cold digits on brass, as impersonal and obtuse as her own journey.

_ New York, Rio, Tokyo _

_ Bangkok, Sydney, Amsterdam _

She drifts down the hallway like a pale and silent ghost, searching for a place to call home.

Grown accustomed to the gentle beat of her heart as sole companion, the quiet notes of gently plucked strings surprise her enough to stop her in her tracks. There they are again, stealing out from behind the door marked  _ Chicago. _

A slow and haunting melody, beckoning her closer and as if enthralled by a siren, she follows.

The door is not locked, slightly ajar even and she hovers before it, almost touching, but not, just waiting for more music to filter out.

A few more notes, then silence.

In this dark corridor, in an unknown part of the world, in the wee hours of the day, she feels as if she has walked wide-eyed into a dream. In slow motion, her fingertips find the painted wooden surface and give it a gentle push.

Darkness awaits her, embracing her completely as she gingerly sets foot inside, eyes trying to adjust, ears straining.

A light flicks on, at the very back of the conference room, a small desk lamp that has been set on the floor. Next to it sits a man, back leaning against the wall, scattered around him sheets of paper, haphazardly covering his jeans clad legs, an empty violin case and a running tape recorder. She recognizes him quicker by his striped socks than by the violin in his hand. There is a pencil in his mouth and he looks at her with an unreadable expression, as if she has walked in on something utterly private, something intimate even. At the same time, it does not make her feel unwelcome.

For a moment, they share a look, then his eyes return to the page on his knee and he continues to experimentally pluck at the strings of his violin.

Even though the temperature is the same, in this room, Laura feels herself thaw for the first time since she left Hampshire.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in March 2009.
> 
> If you want to read Laura Marling and Andrew Bird into this, I will not dissuade you. :)


End file.
